


forward progress

by Anonymous



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28985736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He’s pretty into science fiction. Emphasis onfiction. Time travel, space operas, it’s all cool. Having to live through a cheap B-movie version of an overused plotline himself? Not so cool.After all, only in a cheap B-movie would he find himself hiding in the vacant theater room of the Tampa Bay training facility andstuck in a time loop with Patrick Mahomes. Talk about checking off all the cliches.Aaron and Pat, the day of the 2021 NFL Honors, on repeat.
Relationships: Patrick Mahomes/Aaron Rodgers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31
Collections: Anonymous





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**Author's Note:**

> There’s a lot I’d like to say about my emotional process behind this, but I’ll expand on that in the end notes instead of here. In terms of fic-relevant details, there are many aspects that make this an AU of the 20/21 season (e.g. no pandemic or significant others, Packers vs Chiefs Super Bowl) - I’ve also taken liberties with details re: the NFL Honors and how the teams spend their day before the ceremony begins in order to fit in some plot points. 
> 
> I’ve had a lot of fun watching Pat and Aaron this season, and I put that joy into writing every word of this. <3 The time loop premise was borrowed from the movie Palm Springs.

“And your Most Valuable Player of 2020 is… Aaron Rodgers!”

The camera turns to Aaron, and he feigns surprise on cue, accepting handshakes and fist bumps and high fives from the surrounding crowd. As he makes his way to the stage, he touches base with the Three As of his short and sweet, agent-approved speech: acknowledge his accomplishments, acknowledge his rivals, and acknowledge his supporters. End with something funny but not too try-hard.

It’s all so trite. Who’s going to remember what he says here, really? The only outcome that matters to history is who lifts the Lombardi trophy tomorrow night.

Ever since the final matchup was confirmed, the press has been milking every angle of its implications. Chiefs vs Packers, Mahomes vs Rodgers, a reincarnation of the first ever Super Bowl.

The thing is, if Patrick Mahomes loses, he’ll have an entire career ahead of him to make up for it, but Aaron Rodgers? The world isn’t kind to people who are no longer allowed to attribute their success to raw talent. They say they’re rooting for him, they run the stories and litter his stats all over the text because it makes for good entertainment. In reality? They’re fishing. They’re looking for his kryptonite.

He’s normally not the type to be pessimistic about this, but he’s been through heartbreak after heartbreak, has had chances slip through his fingers, sometimes wrenched cruelly out of his grasp. Sometimes, you can do everything right and come up short. Sometimes, it really is down to luck.

When he gets to the podium, he locks the negative thoughts away. Focus on the present. Keep it zen.

_Stick to the script._

He leans into the microphone. “Thank you. This is a great honor. They say the third time brings you extra luck, so we’ll see if that sentiment carries over to tomorrow.”

An echo of light laughter surges throughout the room. After it dies down, he continues.

“People have asked me, how is it that you keep producing? How is it that you keep upping your game? The obvious answer is hard work. Hard work, and a love for the game, and having wonderful peers to learn from. They keep a guy on his toes, you know? But I wouldn’t have made it this far without my coaches through the years, my friends both on and off the team, all the Packers fans. Your support means a lot to me, and I’ll keep fighting with everything I’ve got.”

The Three As, done. _Quip the one-liner and get off the stage_.

But he’s not finished. There’s more he wants to say.

“Before I get out of your hair, I want to add: People on both sides keep telling me it’s incredible that I’m playing the way I am at my age. It’s probably taboo to say this on national television, and hopefully the league doesn’t kick me out, but haven’t I proved that it’s not about the age, it’s about the performance? I guess what I’m saying is, even if tomorrow doesn’t work out, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for the long haul.”

He raises the trophy, and zooms off the stage in a flurry of confused applause and murmurs.

*

Brain-to-mouth filter: 1. Aaron: 0. So much for keeping it zen.

Oh, professional sportsmen like him tend to be granted some leeway in terms of ego because it’s marketable, but showing it off in interviews and talk shows is quite different from broadcasting it on CBS.

Luckily for him, most people who approach him afterward are polite enough to avoid mentioning his speech entirely. He shakes some hands, pauses for some photographs, promises some things that he’ll forget the next morning.

He’s not sure who on the ceremony staff had convinced the higher ups to host a bar in the main lounge of the venue, but he owes that person a debt of gratitude. Matt would probably kill him if he found out he was in the vicinity of alcohol the night before the big game, but what Matt doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

He’s not stupid, though. He waits until most of the guests have trickled out, then sits down at the far left at the bar. A quiet moment of reflection and half a shot later, a shadow appears on the table to his right.

“Nice suit,” Pat says.

“Keeping things classy,” Aaron says, then grimaces. Nothing about him exudes class right now.

Pat, apparently having read his mind, laughs. “Yeah, you need all the help you can get after that disaster.”

Aaron finds himself mirroring Pat’s grin. There is nothing less sincere than people apologizing for something that they had no part in. Pat’s candidness is refreshing.

“If you think that’ll affect my play tomorrow, it won’t,” Aaron says, knocking the rest of his shot down. “I’ll still wipe the floor with you. Me and my number one scoring offense.”

“There’s the A-Rod we all know and love,” Pat says, and—what? He sits down, his body warm and close. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he says to the bartender.

Aaron eyes him, suspicious. “You don’t drink before games.”

Pat takes the glass from the bartender and flicks the rim. “Maybe I’ll just let it sit on the table. And anyway, I can’t let you drink by yourself, that’s just sad.”

“Will Andy buy that excuse?”

“Will Matt?”

Fair enough. Aaron watches Pat down his shot in one go and signal the bartender to leave the bottle. Despite all the commercials they’ve filmed together, all the events they’ve said hello and goodbye at, they’ve never actually shared a drink like this.

“So where’re you staying?” Pat suddenly asks, after a second shot.

“The Marriott, by the water,” Aaron answers absentmindedly. “It’s a twenty minute walk from…”

Pat is on his third glass now. He parts his mouth and licks his lips, leaving them glistening. Aaron is transfixed.

“You’re staring,” Pat comments.

“Sorry. Just.” Aaron points. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“The night is young.” Pat wipes his mouth using the sleeves (!!!) of his very expensive white suit. At least, Aaron assumes it’s expensive. It certainly looks the part, and it fits Pat’s public persona to a T. The guy is always donning something shiny at red carpet events, managing to convince the rest of the world that it isn’t ridiculous to wear the things he wears.

“Rodgers.”

Aaron snaps back to focus. “Sorry?”

Pat is looking at him, a considerate expression on his face. “I said, how’s the view been treating you?”

“View… what?” Either his brain has decided to completely shut down for the night, or he missed an important pivot in the conversation.

“The view. From your room.” Pat sounds amused. “If it’s by the water, it must be pretty cool at night.”

Aaron knows exactly what he’s talking about. He sees the lights shimmering on the water every time he goes up to the roof to get in a late night swim. “Where’s this going?”

“Just making sure you’re getting the most out of Tampa Bay.”

“... Okay?” It seems like the only appropriate thing to say in this situation. “Any more tourism advice you want to give?”

“Nah. All out.” Pat drags his eyes down the front of Aaron’s dress shirt, and then back up to his lips. Aaron thinks his pupils also dilate just a fraction, but it’s hard to tell underneath the dim lighting, and now Pat might also be inching closer?

Aaron swallows. “If that’s all,” he starts, already pushing off of the barstool.

“Wait.” Pat holds out a hand, and just like that, Aaron waits. “I’ll walk you back.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll walk you back.”

There are a million things Pat could mean by that. Aaron stares at him. “What’s going on with you?”

Pat shrugs, calm and cool. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” Pat unhooks his sunglasses from where they’d been weighing down the front of his shirt, one of the latest models from his personal fashion line. Is he going to wear them? It’s pitch dark outside. How’s he going to see?

It’s absurd, having to think about this. Their performance on the field should be all that matters, but there’s so much micromanagement that comes with the profession—the way they dress, the way they talk, the way they think… the way they live. Surely, a guy as young and brilliant as Pat, and with so much to lose, knows the consequence of being seen with the enemy on Super Bowl eve.

But maybe Pat doesn’t think of him as the enemy. Maybe he’s not thinking about Mahomes and Rodgers, or PM15 and AR12, but about Pat and Aaron. Fuck the cameras and the press and the rest of the world. It sends a thrill up Aaron’s spine, one that he can’t afford to put a name to.

None of this explains why. Why now, why this night, out of every other night that has passed them by.

A question pops into his mind.

“Are you propositioning me, Patrick Mahomes?”

Brain-to-mouth filter: 2. Aaron: 0.

He watches, mesmerized, as something dark passes over Pat’s face, a bit of well-worn longing that Aaron recognizes in his younger self. Since those early days, he’s become an expert in maintaining the All-American, picture-perfect exterior. If you can smile like you’re letting someone in on an inside secret, people will think that they’ve gotten to the root of you, the essence of what makes you who you are.

On the contrary, Pat is an open book, as free as they allow young men to be during the first years of their career. So far, he’s been able to keep any trickery to the field and away from the press, but now, Aaron’s not so sure. After all, it would appear that putting a limit to desire is a skill that even Patrick Mahomes wasn’t born with.

As a veteran in the business, as a mentor and a colleague and a friend, or hell, even just out of common decency, Aaron should tell Pat, _hey, you know the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to do things that the tabloids will have a field day over? Yeah, you might want to be careful before I take you up on it._

The problem is, Aaron’s been playing this game for so long that he might as well have _created_ the rules. Those rules dictate that you never, ever commit the faux pas of admitting to wanting more than you already have.

He takes in a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m an idiot. Don’t answer that.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said sorry.” Pat has managed to rearrange his expression by now, a soft smile back on his face. The Chiefs PR team has taught him well.

“You caught me off guard.” Aaron raises his empty shot glass for emphasis. “Congratulations.”

“There’s not a lot that can catch you off guard,” Pat says. His smile is steady, sunny even in the night.

Aaron wants to kiss him. It’s a punch to the gut, a fuck you to the universe. “Look,” he forces out, “you don’t have to—I know you’re not trying anything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re…” Aaron clears his throat. “That’s not you.”

“But what if I was?”

“Was what?”

Pat mimics air quotes with both hands. “Trying something.”

“Don’t—” Aaron lowers his voice. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things that you don’t mean. Please don’t do that.”

“What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

Because Pat is an open book, free and young, honest and genuine. But he can’t be right now, not here, not when it comes to this. Aaron wants to believe, but what are the odds? And what’s the cost if he’s wrong?

“Rodgers,” Pat says gently. “Aaron.” He tilts his head to the side, exposing the slope of his neck. It’s unnecessary, and it’s distracting. “You’d be surprised by how much I mean what I say.”

What the fuck. What the fuck. Aaron has seen it all, is immune to every bullet point in the playbook, mind games don’t work on him, they _don’t_. But this Pat, this version that Aaron doesn’t recognize, he’s come up with a new play, and all Aaron can do is go along for the ride.

And he finds that he wants to. _He really wants to._ But that’s not what they—Mahomes and Rodgers, PM15 and AR12, professional football players in America—that’s not what they do. There’s no room for Pat and Aaron, no extra space in the cabinets of their lives where they can store this desire.

Aaron’s heart, as foolish as the boy he’d been years ago, aches for the impossible. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Sure I do.” Pat hops off his barstool and glides past Aaron in a waft of cologne, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You can always change your mind.”

This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. But Aaron also knows that his mind was long made up the moment Pat sat down next to him with a shot of whiskey and a smile.

He picks up his jacket, chasing after Pat’s shadow.

*

For a moment, brief enough to be overlooked in the grand scheme of things, Aaron tricks himself into believing that Pat will walk him to the Marriott and that’s it. That goes out the window when Pat pulls him away from the front doors and leads him to the entrance around the corner.

“Side door is better,” Pat says. “Fewer eyes.”

“What, you do this often?” Aaron jokes.

Pat glances at him. “Just trust me.”

God knows why, but Aaron does. And Pat’s right. The elevator nearest the side door takes them to the part of the fifth floor that’s tucked away from the rest of the rooms.

“Be honest with me,” Aaron says as the lock on his door blips green, his hands vibrating with nervous energy, “what’s up with you today? Anything else you want to confess tonight?” He makes it to the bed and turns around, ready to laugh it off.

Pat is leaning against the door, and he’s not smiling.

“What?” Aaron says.

“I’m going to borrow your shower,” Pat announces seriously.

“Right now?”

“And you can decide if you want to change your mind or not.”

Pat leaves the bathroom door ajar. Aaron stares at the sliver of light peeking out from behind as he listens to the rustling of clothes falling to the floor, his own uneven breathing.

The shower turns on for all of two seconds before his id wins out and he’s leaping towards the bathroom. He gets a view of Pat’s back through the foggy shower door, and that’s when his heart jumps into his throat, a rush of adrenaline he only gets when he’s running for a touchdown. Anything that makes him feel this way can’t possibly be bad.

He loosens his tie, strips off his dress shirt, steps out of his pants, and pushes open the shower door, wrapping an arm around Pat’s waist.

“Hi,” he says.

Pat turns in his hold, his curls defying gravity underneath the water. “Hello.”

This is so surreal, having Pat close enough to hold, to touch, but it’s happening, and Aaron is nothing if not a practical man. He presses his fingertips into Pat’s toned body, runs his mouth up the delicious curve of Pat’s neck, and pushes him against the wall. Pat goes easily, too easily, and Aaron is concerned for a second until Pat untangles himself from his arms. A quarterback only kneels if he’s closing out a victory, but Pat goes down anyway, like it’s second nature, and now Aaron thinks he will never be able to watch any of Pat’s games again without his mind going to the gutter.

“Pat,” Aaron says, already breathless. He cups Pat’s face, a feather-light touch, scared that if he applies any additional pressure, that this will all disappear.

But Pat stays. “Hold still,” he says. There’s that longing again, slipping out from behind his carefully crafted facade, but Aaron doesn’t get a chance to think about it further before Pat leans in, taking him in his mouth.

Aaron thumps his forehead against the checkered tile, swallowing down the string of expletives that rise on his tongue. It’s been so long that he’s forgotten how it feels. He digs his fingers into Pat’s cheeks, cradles the back of Pat’s head, committing to memory every movement of his cock sliding over Pat’s tongue. Pat pushes closer, taking in more of him until Aaron’s sure that there’s nowhere for it to go except down Pat’s throat.

“Pat,” Aaron says again, pulling him back. Pink flushes Pat’s skin, resting high on his cheekbones. It’s beautiful. Pat is beautiful. “Tomorrow. Your voice. The game.”

Pat smiles, wicked and devious. “If you’re still thinking about football while I’m sucking your dick, then I’m not doing this correctly.”

And Aaron can’t help it, he hears the hoarseness in Pat’s cadence, the way his voice cracks in the middle of that sentence, and Aaron’s gone, too far gone. He comes, spilling over Pat’s face, and Pat has the audacity to gather a mouthful on his tongue and _swallow_. That, mixed in with the water pouring down Pat’s skin, the heat of Pat’s hands pinned to his hips—it’s all too much.

“Get up,” Aaron says roughly, and Pat does just that, gets up without a fight. Aaron grips Pat’s wrists hard enough to bruise, never relenting as he pushes him out of the shower, out of the bathroom, and onto the bed.

“You’re a kinky fucker,” Pat says appreciatively, roaming his hands over Aaron’s back. “What would everyone say if they knew?”

“Shut up.” They’re dripping all over the duvet, but Aaron doesn’t give a damn. “Turn around.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Pat wraps his legs around Aaron’s waist, using his strength to flip their positions.

An aspect that Aaron has always enjoyed about football is the physicality of it. Not the defensive tackles or getting sacked or anything like that, but navigating all the bodies and knowing when to duck, when to drop back, when to run, putting those core muscles to use. He’s terrific at it. So is Pat. He ignores the options given to him and finds the one that’s hidden from sight.

Suffice to say, Aaron is turned on beyond belief right now, lying on his back and staring up at this wonder kid who has it all. “Figures you’d be a little shit in bed,” he says.

“I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” Pat says.

Something in Pat’s voice makes Aaron readjust. He studies Pat, takes in those taut shoulders, the strained expression disguised as aloofness.

He doesn’t get it. Pat has it all figured out one second, and is on the brink of falling apart the next. This isn’t the Pat he knows. It could be that he never knew him at all.

Aaron sits up and kisses him.

It seems to be enough. Pat reaches behind himself, and Aaron gives in.

*

Pat doesn’t leave after that. Aaron watches him breathe as they lie in the darkness, the silhouette of Pat’s profile illuminated by the light in the doorway.

“It’s late,” Aaron says.

“So I should get back?” Pat says.

“You don’t have to.” His heart stutters at the admission. “But won’t they—everyone, won’t they be looking for you?”

Pat turns onto his side, facing Aaron. The images of Pat straddling his hips above him, body setting a rhythm and working up a sweat, they’re nothing compared to how he looks after the storm, calm and serene.

That’s too dangerous to think about.

“You worry too much,” Pat says.

“You don’t worry enough,” Aaron says.

Pat smiles. It’s secretive, intimate. Aaron wants to know the story behind it, but he doesn’t have the right words to ask.

“Give a guy some time to catch his breath,” Pat says. “I’ll leave before the sun’s up. I promise.”

He’s telling the truth, Aaron can figure that much out, but the intent behind it is hollow. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get Patrick Mahomes.

“Watch your step when you pass the TV. The dresser there comes out further than it looks.”

Stupid. What a stupid thing to say.

Pat doesn’t seem to mind. He nods, taking Aaron’s advice seriously. “I’ll remember.”

A little voice inside Aaron tells him he should stay awake. If this is the extent to which they can be Pat and Aaron and not Mahomes and Rodgers, then he should take advantage of it. Leave nothing to be desired. It makes sense to keep his eyes open and wait for Pat to leave, to memorize that smile and that body and that warmth, to reach out and maybe kiss him again, to…

***

There’s something ringing in his ear. His phone, he realizes.

Shit. The morning interviews.

He grabs haphazardly at his phone. “Hey, Matt,” he says, rubbing at his temple. “Sorry, I’ll be on my way soon.”

No answer. He looks down at the screen. 9:00 AM sharp. Nobody’s calling him.

The ringing sounds again. The hotel telephone? He reaches over where Pat had been lying, ignoring the twinge in his chest when he feels how cold the sheets are, as though Pat had never been here.

“Hello?” he says into the receiver.

“Good morning, Mr. Rodgers,” a male voice greets. “This is the front desk. The item you requested yesterday has been delivered. Would you like a member of our staff to bring it up to you, or would you like to collect it yourself?”

Aaron blinks. “What item?”

“Your suit for the ceremony tonight. I understand you sent it to be dry-cleaned?”

“My…” What?

“Your suit,” the man repeats patiently. “It’s been returned from the cleaners. I can have someone bring it up, or you may elect to retrieve it from the front desk.”

Aaron looks around at his room, really looks, and sees the things that aren’t there. No clothes scattered on the floor, no wrinkled sheets, no smell of sex. No Pat.

“Right,” he says, throat dry. “I’ll, uh. I’ll come pick it up. Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Please call if you require any further assistance.”

Aaron hangs up before the line clicks off and picks up his phone. He didn’t notice it earlier, but he notices it now: February 6, 2021.

He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that he’d dreamt the entire damn thing, or that he’ll have to face Pat tomorrow with _those images_ still bouncing around in his head. Pat kneeling, his mouth wrapped around Aaron’s dick, his deep moans, his cocky attitude, his soft smile.

For years, people have praised Aaron for his creativity on the field. Turns out, having an active imagination has its downsides at the most inconvenient moments.

He looks down and sees evidence proving that he’s utterly and totally fucked. At this rate, he’s not going to make it to the Super Bowl.

The way the schedule panned out, Kansas City gets the training grounds in the morning and Green Bay gets it in the afternoon, so the team’s not meeting up until noon. He’s got approximately three hours to regain his composure and rid himself of any problems that have arisen. Literally.

Resigned to his fate, he flops onto the pillows and reaches down his pants.

*

During brunch, Aaron runs into the same guys, talks through the same points, and hears the same jokes. He marches up to the front desk, greets the concierge, and retrieves his damn suit.

Later, Matt gives them the same pep talk. Take it easy, he says. But not too easy, he says. They’ve got Chiefs ass to kick, he says.

This is really fucking weird. Beyond deja vu levels of weird.

After a light lunch, Aaron steps onto the practice field and lets his arm go on autopilot. They toss some balls around, get in a few drills, but nothing too substantial in case of injury.

In the middle of throwing another sixty-yarder down the field, he realizes, shit, does this mean he’ll have to give his acceptance speech again? He doesn’t need a dream to tell him he’s going to win the award, he’s got that in the _bag_ , but accepting an award and having to say a bunch of humble and media-friendly shit before getting it are two different things entirely.

The ball hits someone on the back of the head. One of the training coaches, he thinks.

“My bad!” Aaron yells down the field.

“Do that against the Chiefs defense tomorrow and we’re all good!” the training coach yells back.

It’s not the Chiefs defense that Aaron is worried about.

*

He wins the MVP award. (Again.)

He accepts all the handshakes and fist bumps and high fives, accepts the trophy, and sticks to the script. If he’s been given a second chance to prevent shit from getting real, then he’s not going to let shit get real.

Pat’s not around, as far as he can tell. Everybody else—players, coaches, random people he’s never met before—they all flock to him. He thanks them, gives them the All-American smile.

This is good. He’s building positive karma for the future. He’s keeping with what’s expected.

*

There’s not a lot of traffic this late at night, on the sidewalks or otherwise. Aaron waits for the pedestrian light to flick from red to green, periodically checking his phone.

“Nice suit,” he hears.

Pat parks himself next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. He’s wearing the white suit, spotless like the sheets in Aaron’s room. Sunglasses, still there. Cologne, still strong. Feelings of deja vu, still lingering.

Feelings of another nature, resurfacing.

“You’re staring,” Pat says.

 _Sorry_ , Aaron almost says. “You weren’t at the ceremony.”

“Must’ve just missed me.” Pat glances at him, a quick flit of eyes before refocusing on the streetlight ahead. “Walk you back?”

Aaron looks around. No cameras. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Who cares?”

“Will Andy buy that excuse?” Aaron asks, taken aback. Pat is never this careless, unless this is another dream.

“Maybe he sent me,” Pat says. “C’mon, I can’t let you walk back by yourself. That’s just sad.”

Aaron feels the stirrings of butterflies filling his stomach and creeping up his spine. “Trying to catch me off guard?”

“There’s not a lot that can catch you off guard.” Pat looks up. “Light’s green.”

Aaron follows him across the street. Pat seems to be content with continuing their walk in silence, a deviation from the chatterbox that Aaron usually associates with him. It’s probably for the best. Trying to keep up a casual conversation would allow too many opportunities for Aaron’s brain-to-mouth filter to fuck things up again.

They make it all the way to the Marriott before the thought occurs to Aaron. “I never told you where I was staying.”

“I was following you,” Pat says.

Was he? Aaron nods dumbly. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Pat agrees.

Neither of them move to leave. It’s a warm winter night, warmer than Aaron’s used to these days. The palm trees are a nice touch. They remind him of good old LA where everything is possible, where Hollywood dreams can become reality if you wish hard enough. It’s foolish, so foolish, but his heart is moving faster than his brain is, and—

Aaron wants to kiss him. It’s the same punch to his gut, the same fuck you to the universe.

“You’re not going to try anything today?” he blurts out.

And, shit.

Pat’s eyes widen. Open book, free and young, honest and genuine. “What did you say?”

 _Way to go, Rodgers. You handled that spectacularly._ He turns towards the hotel entrance, fumbling around his pockets for his key card, trying to get away as fast as he can.

“Stop.” A quick step forward, and Pat is blocking his way. “Just now, you said—what did you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” Aaron finds his key card in his right back pocket. He should keep these things in his wallet. Seems like the smarter thing to do. He sidesteps around Pat, a simple duck to the right.

“Rodgers.” Pat grabs his arm. “ _Aaron._ ”

Aaron stops. Turns slowly. Pat looks nervous.

“Can I have my arm back?” Aaron says.

Pat tightens his grip. It’s his throwing hand, Aaron realizes. “What you said. Did you mean it?”

Multiple images flood his senses at once: wet lips turned up in a soft smile, brown curls giving way to amber skin, the smell of whiskey swirling with cologne. They create a singular picture, a snapshot of a memory.

“You’d be surprised by how much I mean what I say,” Aaron says.

And that’s it. He’s rendered Patrick Mahomes speechless. In fact, Pat looks shell-shocked, dazed like he was after that hit he took three weeks ago. Aaron never thought he’d have to see Patrick Mahomes emotionless twice in his lifetime.

“The dream I had last night,” Aaron begins to say. It makes no sense, defies all logic and reason, but— “Was that not a dream?”

Pat, a credit to the type of person he is, doesn’t even try to feign ignorance. “No,” he says.

“So, everything that…” Aaron draws in a deep breath. “... happened. It happened to you too? You remember everything?”

He didn’t think it was possible, but Pat’s face closes off even more.

The funny thing is, between the two of them, Pat’s the one who’s terrible at memorizing lines. He’d need take after take to nail a simple skit. But this Pat, this version that Aaron doesn’t recognize, he seems to have things figured out. Where does Aaron fit into that plan of his? Nowhere, perhaps.

“It’s late,” Aaron says.

“So I should get back?” Pat’s voice is empty, hollow. Aaron wants to know the story behind it, but he’s not sure he’s qualified to ask.

“Watch your step when you go,” he says. “That curb is taller than it looks.”

“I’ll remember,” Pat says. Flat, affectless, nothing.

Aaron wants to kiss him. Instead, he returns to his room. A few long strides through the lobby, a short ride up the elevator, a slide of his key card through the detector. He opens the door to a darkened entryway.

No clothes on the floor, no wrinkled sheets, no smell of sex. And no Pat.

This is good. He’s keeping with what’s expected.

He kicks the door shut and tumbles onto the bed, creasing his perfectly dry-cleaned suit.

It doesn’t feel as good as he was hoping it would, doing what’s expected.

***

He rolls over and picks up the phone on the first ring.

“Good morning, Mr. Rodgers. This is the front desk.”

“I’ll come down and get it,” he mumbles into the pillow, and hangs up. His head is killing him. Is it possible to feel a hangover two mornings after a night that technically never happened?

He wastes about five minutes trying to ignore his morning wood, willing both it and the urge to kiss Pat Mahomes senseless to go away on their own accord. No luck. How is it that he’s still this turned on? Is he really this much of a masochist?

After another unsuccessful minute, he reaches down the front of his boxers and comes after three quick strokes.

Seriously. Pathetic.

He lies there for another minute, his face squished between the pillows, before his hand starts to feel gross. He trudges to the bathroom (don’t think about Pat, don’t think about Pat), cleans himself up, and goes back to the bed to dig his phone out from underneath the covers. He checks his messages. Checks his Twitter feed. Checks the goddamn weather. Then, he checks if Pat’s number is still saved in his contacts.

It is. Last message received, _Think they’ll make us do a skit based on me beating your ass in the Super Bowl?_ to which Aaron had simply replied, _Keep dreaming, buddy_.

In retrospect, it was a very ominous choice of words.

He keeps staring at Pat’s name, wondering if it’s on him to make the first step. Now that his head is clearer, he admits he was kind of being a dick yesterday. Er, well. In the yesterday that wasn’t.

The bottom line is, if this is happening to both of them, then they’re stuck with each other.

 _We should talk_ , he sends. The reply comes ten minutes later while he’s pulling on his jeans, ready to go downstairs and give up on the effort.

**[Pat] Is that all you want to do?**

_What does that mean?_

**[Pat] Talking didn’t work so well yesterday.**

Aaron makes himself calm down and count to ten. Pat is also stuck, he reminds himself. Pat isn’t liking this any more than he is.

_I just want to figure out what’s going on._

**[Pat] I don’t think you’ll like the answer.**

Aaron taps his phone against his thigh, considering his options.

 _At least you have answers_ , he sends.

No reply. It feels like he’s in an RPG. Pick the wrong action, say the wrong thing, and you’re down a life. Then, he decides, fuck it.

_I promise I’m not trying anything._

This time, the ping comes immediately.

**[Pat] Okay, I laughed. You win.**

**[Pat] Where are we meeting?**

Aaron grins.

*

He’s pretty into science fiction. Emphasis on _fiction_. Time travel, space operas, it’s all cool. Having to live through a cheap B-movie version of an overused plotline himself? Not so cool.

After all, only in a cheap B-movie would he find himself hiding in the vacant theater room of the Tampa Bay training facility and _stuck in a time loop with Patrick Mahomes._ Talk about checking off all the cliches.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pat says. He’s in his training gear, loose yellow jersey billowing out at the ends. “You’re the one who suggested this.”

“To meet when we get a chance, yes.” Aaron’s not so self-centered as to make Pat completely ditch his team during practice, not even for a sci-fi crisis. “Not to set up a suspicious rendezvous with the quarterback I’m supposed to be taking down tomorrow, no. Andy is going to kill me. Hell, your entire team is going to kill me.”

“Wow. You’re in worse shape than I thought.” Pat sounds entertained. At least one of them finds this predicament of theirs amusing.

“Why couldn’t you have waited until Green Bay’s practice?” Aaron accuses.

“What’s the difference?”

“It would’ve been easier for you to stick around instead of me sneaking in! Who does that!”

Pat crosses his arms. “Are you done?”

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m done. The situation’s caught up to me, that’s all. I mean, this is ridiculous, right?”

“Oh yeah. Totally ridiculous.” Pat nods in mock-seriousness. He’s obviously making fun of him. At least he seems to be back to his usual cheerful demeanor. Pat isn’t made to be anything but expressive, a colorful array representing the entire range of human emotions.

“I just don’t understand why—” Aaron selects one of the many velvety seats and plops down with a sigh. “Why is this happening to us?”

“I don’t know,” Pat says honestly. “But it’s nice having another person around.”

Aaron looks up. Pat sits down next to him, propping his feet on the armrest in front. He seems so young, all of a sudden, younger than he already is.

Or, maybe Aaron is just old.

“I’m pretty sure you drew the shorter straw between the two of us,” he says.

“Not possible.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be stuck with, I don’t know, one of your friends? Someone on the team?”

Pat sinks down in his seat and tilts his head back, the line of his throat exposed to the ceiling. “I think I was always meant to be stuck with you.”

Aaron’s heart flutters in confusion. “Because of the Super Bowl?”

Pat tosses him a look that clearly means, _seriously?_

“Then why?” Aaron says.

“Yesterday wasn’t…” Pat picks at a popped seam in his chair, carefully avoiding Aaron’s gaze. “It wasn’t the first loop for me.”

There’s something in Pat’s body language that Aaron doesn’t like. A weight descends in Aaron’s stomach, dropping like a stone. “How long has it been for you?”

“Long enough.”

“How long, Pat?”

Pat grabs a fistful of his jersey with both hands, bunching up the fabric and twisting it around. “I lost count after the fiftieth time.”

It probably shouldn’t be the first thought that comes to his mind, but Aaron says, “You mean you’ve had at least fifty days’ worth of additional practice on me?”

Luckily, Pat doubles over in laughter instead of kicking Aaron out, so maybe it wasn’t the worst thing to say.

*

After coming down from his endorphin high, Pat tries to convince him that it’s a good idea to skip practice altogether. Aaron is resistant.

“I can’t skimp on this now,” he says. “What if the loop ends tomorrow? You’re telling me you never squeezed any plays out of me?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Pat says, indignant. “And give both of us more credit, will you? I don’t play Jedi mind tricks, and you’re not exactly easy to pry things out of to begin with.”

Pat may say that, but he doesn’t know how intoxicating of an effect his mere presence has on people. Aaron glances at him, wary.

Pat grins and elbows him lightly in the side. “But I did squeeze something else of yours, if you get my drift.”

“Jesus, Pat, be serious,” Aaron says, shifting in his seat. If he starts thinking about that now, he’ll have another major problem to deal with down there, and having to jerk off in a place that Brady now calls home would be all kinds of wrong.

Although, Pat brings up a good point. If he’s been in the loop for so long, then how many Aarons has he walked back from the ceremony? How many Aarons has he directed that soft smile at, spilled his secrets to, gone down on his knees for? How many times has Aaron had Pat for the lingering hours of the night, only to be yanked back to the starting line again? How many—

“Hello?” Pat waves a hand in front of Aaron’s face. “You still in there?”

Aaron takes in Pat’s loose form, sprawled out and taking up space like he owns every inch of air he makes contact with. The Pat that was teetering between 110% confidence and complete lack of it, there’s none of that here. There’s only the Pat that Aaron has always known: the Pat that he wants to know better.

“I’m fine,” Aaron says. “I’m surprised you’re so cavalier about everything.”

“Like I said, not my first rodeo.” Pat pauses. “What, was that joke too much?”

“A bit,” Aaron admits, but not for the reasons Pat is probably thinking about.

“You looked like you were freaking out, so I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“I know.”

“Okay then.”

Pat goes back to staring up at the ceiling, jersey bunched up in his hand. There’s something that’s bothering him, that much is obvious, but Aaron doesn’t know how to fix it. If he was the one stuck reliving the same day, what would he want to say to Pat? What would he be afraid of?

He gets flashes of the first night back: the slip in Pat’s facade, the well-worn longing. Then, it clicks. It’s been lonely, hasn’t it? Loneliness can drive people to do strange things.

“I’m not angry with you,” Aaron says.

“How’s that?”

“About your side of things. Considering what… happened between us.” Aaron scratches the back of his neck. How to put this in the least pretentious way? “If that wasn’t the only time, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Pat turns to him with a funny expression on his face.

Aaron runs through what he just said, and, yep, “That sounded bad. Uh, what I meant was—I’m sure past me was very into whatever the hell happened. If anything else even happened. I don’t know. Just—if you’re wondering if you took advantage of the situation, or… whatever…”

For a moment, he thinks Pat might be seething with rage, but then he looks closer and, nope, Pat’s shoulders are definitely shaking with silent laughter. Aaron feels heat flooding his face.

“... it’s okay if you did,” he ends lamely. “All I’m saying is that it’s fine. I get it. I probably would’ve done the same thing in your shoes.”

Shit, he didn’t mean to let that last part slip.

Pat is still laughing, no longer silent in his efforts. Between this and Pat making fun of him literally ten minutes ago, Aaron is starting to feel annoyed. “Okay, that’s real mature. Will you pull yourself together?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m done,” Pat says between wheezes, waving a hand at him. “I forget how funny you are sometimes.”

“Funny? I’m trying to be serious here.”

“I know, I know. What you said made me think of something else, and…” Pat shakes his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Aaron hesitates. “So, we’re good?”

Pat kicks him lightly in the shin. “Yeah, we’re good.” He peers at the clock in the corner. “So, about skipping practice…”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

“No way. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“How many times have you done this, exactly?”

“Nuh-uh. A man’s got to keep some secrets for himself.” Pat grabs Aaron by his front jacket pockets and starts pulling. “Rebellion! Let’s go!”

Well. If Pat is telling the truth, and once again, God knows why Aaron trusts him but he does, then one day of playing hooky shouldn’t send the Earth toppling off of its axis.

“Fine. Just this once.”

“Hell yeah!” Pat visibly fist-pumps in the air, like the child he is.

Aaron can’t find it in himself to be bothered.

***

It becomes a routine, after that. Aaron wakes up to an empty room, the phone ringing in his ears. Sometimes he picks up, sometimes he doesn’t. He jerks off to his Pat memory of choice (his hands? His mouth? His laugh? Doesn’t matter. They all do it for him), takes a moment to put himself together, and meets up with the real Pat.

It’s hard, pretending to be unfazed around him, but Aaron hasn’t played the game this long only to be beaten by some sick joke from the universe. Besides, he finds that despite the repetition, his experiences with Pat are slowly branching out, often in unexpected ways.

For one, Pat has the absolute worst taste in movies.

“You’re really going to sit there and say to my face that _Empire Strikes Back_ isn’t the best one,” Aaron says as Pat slurps at his Coke. One of the upsides of reliving the same day is that whatever calories you intake are cleared upon reset. “You’re going there. Really.”

Pat puts the bottle down. “I’m not saying it isn’t good! I just think the others have their merits too!”

“You are a blight to civilization.” Aaron throws a fry at him and looks up at the sky. “Is this why you’re punishing us? Because of him? Because I didn’t set him on the right path?”

“You don’t believe in God anymore. What are you even doing with that?”

“Maybe I need to rethink my position if it means I don’t have to hear you say that ever again.” Aaron shakes his head, truly disappointed.

Pat props his chin up with his hand and grins at him. “You are such a nerd.”

“Be quiet,” Aaron says. “I’m not talking to you for the rest of the month.”

“In case you haven’t heard, we’re kind of fucked on that front.”

“Shut up. It’s the principle of it.”

On a different loop, Aaron learns that Pat’s sense of fashion is even more out of his league than he’d thought.

“What is… that?” Aaron eyes the myriad of orange, red, purple, and green on Pat’s torso as Pat brings him a beer. They’re in Pat’s rented apartment, which is actually in the opposite direction of the Marriott, about five miles out. He tries not to read too hard into the geography, or what it means that Pat has continued to walk him back to the hotel.

“It’s a leopard!” Pat looks down. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Aaron takes the can and opens it without looking. He’s in the middle of a staring match with said leopard. It feels like it’s boring through his chest, right to his soul. He didn’t think anything other than the Mona Lisa (or the press) could do that.

“It’s so bright,” he merely says.

“It’s awesome, is what it is,” Pat counters, enthusiasm dialed up.

“If that’s your attempt to go incognito, I don’t think it’ll work.”

“Actually, trying too hard to fit in backfires. People assume you’re going to be hiding, so.” Pat gestures to his outfit, which is completed by his shoulders filling out a cotton black jacket and blue jeans that hug his legs very nicely. “Why not wear what I want to wear?”

Aaron isn’t convinced. He also feels very underdressed in his simple button-up. Pat’s pair of jeans probably costs five times the amount that his does.

“Don’t look so concerned,” Pat says, doing that thing where he reads Aaron’s mind again. “It’s not like we’re going on a catwalk.”

Aaron doesn’t say that Pat would fit in perfectly on a catwalk. He takes a sip of beer and listens as Pat launches into another anecdote about crazy fans on the street (perfectly explaining why it’s important to _not wear bright colors during stealth mode_ , but Aaron is too enamored by Pat’s animated storytelling to bring it up).

Somewhere way down the line (as in, ‘Aaron has lost track of the number of loops’ down the line), Pat’s persuasiveness extends to them skipping out on the honors ceremony itself.

“You _have_ to tell me how many times you’ve done this, at least,” Aaron says, as they watch the broadcast on TV in his hotel room. They’re about to present the Best Offensive Player of the Year Award (“Kelce! Kelce! Kelce!” Pat is chanting in the background), and he needs more than two hands to list out all the reasons this is batshit crazy.

Pat stops chanting long enough to answer him. “Not that many. It’s not like I’m needed for anything, and I show up at the end to pretend I was there the entire time. But not tonight. I will use force to drag you back if you try to leave.”

They’re sitting next to each other on the floor, where they’ve laid out the extra duvet covers and built a pillow wall to lean against. Aaron can’t believe he talked himself into 1) inviting Pat up (“Still not trying anything,” Aaron had said, to which Pat had merely rolled his eyes at him), 2) letting Pat order the entire menu with room service, and 3) _not being there to collect his trophy._

“That’s it,” Aaron says, biting into a slice of ciabatta. “My career is over, and it’s all your fault.”

“Don’t you want to see what happens when their MVP goes rogue?” Pat says, sounding too gleeful for his own good. “The league is gonna shit itself.”

And yes, Aaron is curious how big of a fuss the world will make if he doesn’t show up, he admits it. He’s only human. He’s not immune to ego-inflation.

“We are so fucked if the loop ends tomorrow,” he says, stealing Pat’s last slice of ciabatta from his plate.

Pat steals Aaron’s grapes in return. “Nah, just you.” He stuffs them into his mouth and slaps Aaron’s forearm with the back of his hand. “Here we go, here we go.”

“ _And your Most Valuable Player of 2020 is… Aaron Rodgers!_ ”

“No fucking way!” Pat exclaims. “Totally did not see that coming.”

Aaron laughs as Pat leans over him to grab the remote and crank up the volume. Everybody on screen is stage-whispering, pulling out their phones and glancing at their neighbors in confusion. At one point, someone tells another person to check the local hospital. It’s a good thing he turned his phone off before the affair.

“ _It, uh, it would appear that Mr. Rodgers could not make it tonight. We will accept the award on his behalf._ ”

As chaos continues to reign, he stops paying attention to the TV and focuses purely on Pat. He’s returned to his half of the makeshift futon, but his entire left side is pressed against Aaron’s right, and he’s warm, so warm.

Pat wrinkles his nose at the screen. “Honestly? That was lamer than I thought it’d be. Maybe you’re not such a big deal after all.”

Aaron wants to kiss him. It’s a shot of adrenaline to his heart, a fuck you to the universe.

“Pat.”

“Aaron.” Pat turns. “You’re staring.”

“It’s late.” Aaron pinches the end of one of Pat’s hoodie strings and gives it a light tug. “But you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

Pat’s face is at an impasse, unreadable and mysterious. It clears, after a moment. “I guess it doesn’t really matter if I sleep here. I’ll just end up back in my place tomorrow anyway.”

“Right.” Aaron drops the hoodie string. For all of Pat’s passion, he’s a practical man at the end of the day, just like Aaron.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Pat says.

“Of course not.” Aaron ignores the disappointment in his chest, mixed in with something else.

Aaron lets Pat borrow his extra sweatpants. They’re a little short on him, but Aaron’s heart seizes at the sight anyway.

They lie in the same position as they did that night, Pat looking up at the ceiling, Aaron looking at him. No matter how many loops it’s been, Pat is still beautiful.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you to watch your step this time,” Aaron says.

Pat hums. “I guess you don’t.”

Aaron turns off the light and tries to hold his eyes open for as long as he can. He falls asleep to the sound of his own heart, beating rapidly in tandem with Pat’s rhythmic breathing.

***

He wakes to the phone ringing and a void in his chest. He grips the front of his shirt and feels his heart still beating. Still aching.

That’s new.

After the ringing subsides, he places his palm on Pat’s side of the bed and smoothes out the wrinkles that aren’t there. It’s cold, so cold.

He reaches down his pants like clockwork, ready to get it over and done with, but when he finally comes, he doesn’t feel the same relief as he did before. If he’s honest with himself, it hasn’t felt good in a while.

There’s a reason you aren’t supposed to want more than you already have.

***

One day, Aaron wakes up with an off-kilter sensation in his stomach. This one is familiar: he feels it every time he’s on a 4th down and long on a comeback drive, one score down and with less than thirty seconds to spare. No time outs, the end zone taunting him in the distance.

He attributes it to the fact that he hasn’t been playing proper football. Sure, he attends practice from time to time, but that’s not _football._ Football is fans in the stands, sweat in his eyes, hands dry from touching leather. Football is a game on the line, one that he can never take back, where every decision either moves you forward or drags you back. You win or you lose. There is no middle ground.

Like the Super Bowl.

How long has it been since he’s touched a ball with the intention to dominate, like it was the only thing that mattered? He has memories of it, but they’re foreign, almost as though from a previous life he never lived.

His past is slipping away, and he has no future, and it scares him.

“You can’t be satisfied with this,” he says to Pat in the middle of an early dinner. It’s 5 PM, still hours from the ceremony, but Pat had wanted to try a restaurant further away from the city and dragged Aaron with him.

“I never pegged you to be a picky eater. You haven’t even tried the lobster,” Pat says, pushing the plate at him.

“I’m not talking about the food.”

“Then what?”

“I’m talking about this. This—” Aaron gestures between them. “— _thing_.”

Pat slows down his chewing. “Thing?”

“Yeah. This—pretending. Pretending to live a normal life when we both know it’s not.”

“Are you saying what we’re doing right now isn’t normal?”

“No,” Aaron says, exasperated. “I’m talking about being frozen in time. Doing everything over and over again. Not having the day stick. No tomorrow, just the same 24 hours, forever and ever.”

“Never playing football again, you mean.” Pat was always good at reading his mind.

“You can tell me you’re satisfied but I won’t believe you. Not you. Never you.”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

“Then I don’t get you. How can you keep doing this like it doesn’t matter? What if we never get out of this? What if we never play the Super Bowl? Are you okay with that? Are you seriously okay with that?” Aaron all but yells out the last sentence, chest heaving and out of breath.

Pat regards him for a long minute, then puts down his fork with a decisive clatter. It’s a good thing they’re sitting at an outside table where there are no other guests, only the noises of traffic washing over them.

“You really think I’m okay with never playing football again?” Pat asks quietly. He sounds angry, like there’s a lightning storm bottled up inside of him, waiting to strike.

Aaron gives him a target. “You certainly give off that impression.”

“How dare you. Say that again.”

“What? Am I wrong?”

“Okay, Rodgers. I’ll play this game with you.” Pat reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, brings something up, and turns the screen around.

Aaron looks, only intending to give it a bored cursory glance at most, but he freezes when he makes out what exactly he’s looking at.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Pat says. “I didn’t take that hit only for you to spew all this bullshit at me.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I didn’t fight my way back to win the AFC Championship just for you to tell me that I don’t care about football. How dare you. _How dare you_.”

“Pat, please—”

Pat slams his phone on the table. “No, you listen to me. Do you know how happy I was, winning my games on my side and watching you win yours, knowing that there was actually a chance for us to meet this year? Do you know how fucking traumatized I was after the divisionals, thinking that I might not get cleared in time? Do you know how pumped up I was hearing that you crushed Brady, knowing I was four quarters away from a game with you? Knowing that the Super Bowl was ours to fight for? No. No, you don’t. I didn’t play my heart just for the person who made me want to play in the first place tell me to my face that none of it matters. Fuck you, Rodgers. _Fuck you._ ”

Aaron closes his eyes. For the first time, he wishes his memory would be wiped come midnight. Clean slate, start over. “I never said you didn’t care about football.”

Pat scoffs. “That’s not what it sounded like a minute ago.”

Aaron reopens his eyes. Pat is hunched over, eyes dull. He looks tired. Aaron is about to say something, anything to bring the light back in Pat’s eyes, when a shadow falls on both of them.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” a woman with a recorder says, and, fuck. Of course this is happening right now.

“No comment,” Aaron says.

“Please, Mr. Rodgers. Just one moment of your time?”

Before Aaron can say _no, get the hell out of here_ , the reporter continues. “We received an anonymous tip that the two of you were sharing a shouting match in addition to dinner, and on the night of the NFL Honors, no less! Would you mind telling us what made everything escalate so quickly?”

Aaron says the first thing he can think of. “Pat was telling me he was going to win the Super Bowl. I was telling him, not a chance. We got competitive. That’s all.”

The reporter gives Pat a quick look, but otherwise ignores him. It’s a little surprising. Usually, catching Patrick Mahomes on the streets would make for a big headline. Aaron is suspicious, but his brain doesn’t work fast enough to figure out the reporter’s motive before she presses on.

“Since you brought up the Super Bowl,” she says, “any preliminary thoughts as to whether a devastating loss would impact your longevity with Green Bay?”

Really? This again?

“No.”

The reporter turns to Pat in surprise, as does Aaron, who was just about to give the PG version of the response he drafted up in his head.

“No?” the reporter says.

“No,” Pat says firmly. “Aaron’s not retiring anytime soon.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s Aaron Rodgers, and he’s been playing incredible. Always has. Anyone who thinks he isn’t going to bounce right back if he loses is an idiot.”

“‘If’ he loses?” the reporter prompts. “A curious choice of words.”

“Look, I want to win. Of course I do. I’ve told Aaron that a million times by now. But nobody knows better than the both of us that no win is guaranteed. It goes until the very last second of the very last play, and that’s that. So, if you’re curious about the results of the Super Bowl, you can tune in tomorrow.” Pat reaches over to switch the reporter’s recorder off. “No more questions, please. We’d like to finish our dinner in peace before the ceremony.”

The reporter looks between them, and when she seems to put two and two together, Aaron can’t help it, his hands begin to tremble.

“I’m very sorry for bothering you,” the reporter says. “Good luck tomorrow, both of you.”

“Thank you,” Pat says.

Aaron gives her a stiff smile and a nod, hoping it’s enough. After the reporter rounds the corner at the end of the street, he lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You okay?” Pat says. He takes a sip of his wine, as though nothing had happened.

“Yeah.” Aaron inhales deeply, lets it out. “What you said to her. Thanks.”

“It’s the truth,” Pat says. Simple, easy. But it’s not so easy from Aaron’s point of view.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Aaron says instead.

“So we’re even.”

“Hardly. I’m sorry for—” _Always saying the wrong thing. Always assuming that you don’t have it as rough as I do. Always thinking I know everything when in fact I know nothing._ “—for not being more supportive.”

“You’re good,” Pat says. “I promise.”

Pat is always letting him off the hook. Aaron’s not sure he deserves it.

“I did lie to her about one thing though,” Pat says, grinning mid-sip. “The Super Bowl is definitely not happening tomorrow.”

Aaron laughs, the first of many knots untwisting in his stomach. “Maybe it will. Maybe she’ll print about us and we’ll be fucked.”

“Nah,” Pat says, shrugging. “I know these things.”

“That is such a load of bullcrap.”

“Careful, Rodgers. I was just warming back up to you again.”

“Pretend all you want, Mahomes. I know how you really feel.”

“Oh yeah? And how’s that?”

“I’m the person who made you want to play, huh?”

Pat flushes underneath the sunset colors of the sky. Aaron’s got a feeling that it’s not because of the alcohol. “Does anything ever not feed your ego?”

“Nope,” Aaron says. “I’m as big of an egomaniac as they come.”

Pat throws a bunched up napkin ball at his head. Aaron will take an annoyed Pat over an emotionless Pat any day of the week.

***

Confetti falls from the sky like snowflakes do onto Lambeau Field, and for a moment, he forgets that he’s in sunny Florida. 

He looks around at every speck of movement among the stands, the training staff, his teammates. Jones, he’s over there whooping his heart out at any camera that will turn to him. Adams, he’s grinning like he’s won a Super Bowl for every year he’s been alive. Lazard, who’d caught the winning touchdown and some change, he’s struggling to field the onslaught of reporters that are rushing for an exclusive interview. That kid is never going anywhere without being bombarded by requests for photos ever again.

And Aaron? He’s standing in the middle of it all, the peak at the mountaintop at the top of the world. His heart is full of love for the fans, for his team, for a wonderful finish on top of an already wonderful season. People who say the sophomore effort can’t live up to the first don’t understand a thing about football. The second time is the only time that matters, because that means you’ve proved the first wasn’t a fluke.

At the end of the long journey into the night, there is only a sea of green.

No, that’s wrong. There’s a singular red dot, a lighthouse amidst the storm, a star to chart a course by.

Pat. He’s saying something, but Aaron can’t make out the words from this distance. He’s too far, too small. Aaron moves forward on instinct, but there is no path laid out before him.

“Pat!” he says.

Pat holds out his arms, palms turned towards Aaron. Waiting.

“What?” Aaron says. “What do you want?”

Pat’s mouth moves. Aaron doesn’t move with him.

“I can’t hear you,” Aaron tries to shout.

Pat shakes his head, and points.

Aaron looks down. A football, where the Lombardi trophy had once been. He juggles it between his hands, getting acquainted with its shape, and sends it in Pat’s direction. It’s the laws of physics, but even easier than that.

Gravity delivers the ball to its intended target. Pat gives it a playful twirl, and raises his arm to return the favor.

***

Aaron wakes up. Through the ringing, he tilts his palms towards the sunlight and stares at the receding calluses on his hands, smoothed out like the universe had smoothed out the sheets on Pat’s side of the bed.

It makes no sense. Time is both continuous and still. He’s both aging and regressing, stuck and unstuck.

What about Pat? Pat is just starting. He should have more than a decade left in his career.

Aaron picks up his phone.

_You awake?_

**[Pat] I am now.**

_I’ve got an idea._

**[Pat] Uh oh, alert the press.**

_Can it._

_Meet me outside the stadium after GB practice._

_4 PM?_

**[Pat] I knew it. You’re setting the Pack loose on me.**

_They’d tear you apart for sure._

_But no, I want to bring you somewhere._

Aaron rolls to the right side of the bed. After a minute, he rolls back to the left.

_Pat?_

**[Pat] Do I need to bring my Sunday shoes?**

_I was thinking more along the lines of training sneakers._

Aaron waits for another minute. Patience is a virtue, after all.

**[Pat] I’m still concerned that you’re gonna ambush me.**

**[Pat] But fine, I’ll trust you.**

**[Pat] Don’t make me regret it.**

_I would never_ , Aaron sends, then rolls completely off the bed to find his spare training gear.

*

Pat gawks comically when Aaron pulls a football out of his duffel bag. Well, maybe Pat is gawking at where Aaron has brought him to and less at what he’s holding. There’s an open field next to the park, separated by a trail and hill. The weather’s nice, so there’s a fair amount of people around, but not too much that it would make the place seem crowded.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Pat says, glancing around nervously. It’s honestly pretty funny, considering Pat’s typical devil-may-care attitude on most of the other days.

“Nope,” Aaron agrees.

“We are literally offering ourselves up as bait.”

“Yep.”

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

Aaron spins the ball on his palm. “You worry too much.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Pat says, scowling as his eyes follow the ball’s rotation. His resolve is strong, but Aaron can tell it’s crumbling. Quarterbacks aren’t made to resist an open field.

Besides, Aaron is equally stubborn. “What’s the worst that could happen? So people might snap a few pictures of us, big deal.”

“Says the person who freaked out yesterday,” Pat mutters.

Aaron considers this. “Okay, you have a point. But c’mon, we’re already here. Indulge me.” He tosses the ball in Pat’s direction. Laws of physics. Easy.

Pat catches it, one-handed and confident, and sighs. “Fine. Don’t blame me if things go south.”

“Just throw the damn ball.”

If there was ever any doubt that quarterbacks are competitive as fuck, the two of them alone would be able to do away with it. What can he say? It’s fun pushing Pat’s buttons.

“That’s not fair, you’re still warmed up from practice,” Pat complains when Aaron sends the ball soaring over his fingertips. “Plus, I’m not a receiver!”

Aaron grins, feeling diabolical as the ball begins rolling down the hill. It’s not particularly steep, more of a lazy slope than anything, but Pat still has to work to keep up with it. Running downhill is a bitch. “You’re telling me. That pirouette against the Falcons? What the hell was that?”

“Hey!” Pat points at him as he runs. “My pirouette was fantastic, don’t even start.”

“It’d be better if it scored you some points.”

“It worked in practice!”

“Like that means anything!”

“Fuck you!” Pat shouts from the bottom of the hill.

Something hits the back of Aaron’s right ankle, distracting him from watching Pat narrowly avoid bumping into a bunch of joggers. It’s a football.

“Sorry, mister,” a timid voice says. “Could I have that back?”

Aaron looks around, then pivots. There’s a kid a few paces away, wearing a short-sleeve tee and a pair of Adidas track pants. He’s blonde, on the skinnier side, height maxing out around Aaron’s hips.

“Hi,” Aaron says.

The kid freezes mid-stride. “Are you Aaron Rodgers?”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Aaron picks up the ball and hands it to him. The kid is, what, seven or eight? “You know who I am?”

The kid takes the ball gingerly, staring at it like it might explode or fall apart. “I watched you play two weeks ago. You beat us.”

Ah. “Bucs fan?”

“My dad is. I don’t care so much,” the kid says matter-of-factly. Kids are blunt that way. “But I like watching people catch the ball.”

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Aaron asks his next question before he thinks it through. “Want to practice some throws with us?”

“Us?”

Aaron scans the hill and points to where Pat is slowly making his way back.

That coaxes a more animated response out of the kid, whose eyes light up with recognition. “Is that Patrick Mahomes?”

“Sure is,” Aaron says, oddly proud.

“You’re friends?”

“Something like that. So, what do you say?”

“I can’t,” the kid says, kicking at the ground.

Aaron is genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

“I’m not supposed to like him,” the kid sulks. “Or you.”

Right. Aaron laughs. “We won’t tell your dad.”

“Won’t tell whose dad what?” Pat says, appearing next to them. He’s spinning the ball on his finger, balanced perfectly on the tip. He’s also unbothered by his jog down and back, barely breaking a sweat.

“That he’s consorting with the enemy,” Aaron says. Pat looks confused, so he adds, “We’re still in Tampa, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Pat directs an apologetic smile at the kid. Oh, he’s good. “Sorry, kiddo. But that was just business, you know? Nothing personal.”

Aaron bites down on the inside of his cheek. It felt very fucking personal when he lost to Tampa Bay early in the season. Since then, he’d been praying to the NFL gods to let him get revenge, and boy, did he do just that. It’s petty, he knows, but come on, scoring only 10 points during the first effort?

Pat notices him brooding. “We probably shouldn’t talk about this while this guy’s around,” he says, poking Aaron in the stomach. “He’s a salty old man.”

“You don’t look that old to me,” the kid says, and, yep, Aaron is going to adopt this kid, steal him away from his Bucs loving father.

“See?” he says to Pat. “He gets it. What am I still doing with you?”

“Not my fault you’re so easy to tease,” Pat says, grinning that shit-eating grin of his.

The kid looks starstruck. Figures. Patrick Mahomes does that to people of all ages, genders, and persuasions.

“Offer to practice with us stands,” Aaron says to the kid. He sees Pat holding out a hand for a high five out of the corner of his eye, and stifles a snort. Nobody can possibly resist that.

Sure enough, the kid high fives Pat back, a quick, shy tap. “Can my friends play with us too?”

“If they think they can keep up with us,” Pat says. He kneels, matching his height with the kid. It’s a familiar movement, but now, in a context that’s strangely homely, Aaron can’t help but feel endeared. “What’s your name?”

“Alex,” the kid says, looking like he’s over the moon and not at all intimidated. Aaron vaguely remembers a time when he was lucky enough to be half as formidable. “My friends are down there at the swings. I’ll be back!”

After Alex runs off, Aaron says to Pat, “You’re good with kids.”

Pat peers up at him. “So are you.”

Aaron takes a seat on the grass next to him. “Kids are the future. Who knows, that one over there might even become a football player after he grows up.”

“Maybe.”

There’s something off in Pat’s tone. Aaron can’t quite place it. He turns to look at him as Pat sits down cross-legged, his right knee lodged comfortably against Aaron’s left thigh. Pat’s profile is backlit by the early sunset, and Aaron is reminded of the nights in bed, the empty mornings, but above all, the longing that ties the days together.

“I think about it a lot,” Pat says. “What would’ve happened if I didn’t choose football.”

“You mean if you followed your old man.”

“Sure, that too, but also just in general. I wonder how different my life would’ve been.”

A league without Pat isn’t a league that Aaron even wants to consider. Instead of admitting to that, he says, “The rest of us would’ve had a lot less to worry about on the field, that’s for sure.”

Pat laughs. He begins tossing the ball into the air, a simple repetition of ups and downs. “I love football, and I’m good at it, so I’m glad I went with it. No regrets.”

“It’s a bit early for you to have a mid-life crisis, don’t you think?”

“It’s not that. What I mean is, I love football because it brought me to a lot of things I love now.”

Aaron holds his breath. Pat is talking about his friends, or his Super Bowl title, or the chance to win a second one.

Pat lets the ball land in his lap with a muffled thump. He tilts his neck, turning those eagle eyes onto Aaron. “Do you think we would’ve met if I never joined the league?”

Aaron’s heart jumps into his throat. Why would Pat ask him that? No, scratch that. Why would Pat even be thinking that in the first place? Aaron runs through all of the possible answers and comes up with nothing. He stays silent, willing his hands to stop fidgeting.

But Pat notices. He always notices. He places a steady hand over Aaron’s trembling ones, breaking the plane so effortlessly. “That’s what I think about the most, you know.”

Meanwhile, Aaron is still scrambling to process everything. He’s dissociated from his body, trying to not turn his palm up and lace their fingers together lest he commits an irredeemable foul. He finds his voice only to say, “Not playing football?”

Pat smiles, kind and patient, as though he expected Aaron’s response. “Not meeting you. The game’s not the same without you. You make the league better.” He curls his fingers around Aaron’s. “You make me better.”

Open book, free and young, honest and genuine. It’s taken Aaron some time, but he thinks he’s finally connected the dots. His heart shakes when he makes out the shape.

“You’ve told me this before,” he says.

Pat nods.

“When?”

“The first time. Before… everything.”

Before Pat’s loop began. Before Pat had to relive the same day alone, before he had to go on and pretend he didn’t pour his heart out to an Aaron that he thought he knew.

“ _You’d be surprised by how much I mean what I say_ ,” Aaron recites. “This is what you were talking about.”

Pat nods again. “You didn’t take it well.”

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, and immediately regrets it. He feels like the most clueless idiot in the world. It must show on his face, because Pat backtracks.

“It’s not your fault,” Pat says, withdrawing his hand. Aaron barely resists chasing after it. “I’m not trying to guilt trip you into saying anything, or make you feel bad, or—I know how much it hurts to do the thing you love for a living and not have it be enough. The world fucking sucks. That’s not on you. It’s on them.”

Pat picks at the grass next to his feet, tearing out a few blades. “That’s what I told myself, but when I woke up, I thought—I thought that I had to change. I thought my mission was to stop caring. I tried, I really fucking tried, but every night I’d look at you on that stage and I’d think about everything you’d gone through to get there, all the naysayers and everybody who’s put their hopes in you and then dropped it the next second like cowards, but you’re still there! You! And that’s just—you—” He laughs again, a self-deprecating sound that contradicts Pat’s bulletproof existence. “You make it really fucking hard for a guy to stop caring.”

Aaron wants to kiss him. It’s not a revelation that stuns him anymore, not by a long shot, but this time, the intention behind it is new.

Or, maybe it’s been there all along. The punch to his gut, the shot of adrenaline to his heart, the void in his chest, they all point to the same destination.

“Pat,” he says. His heart is drumming a beat out of his chest. “I think I lo—”

“They’re back,” Pat interrupts. He stands up, taking his warmth with him. “Get your game face on, Rodgers. Would be a shame if you lost now.”

Aaron watches Pat jog to meet Alex and his friends, a chance slipping through his fingers like the Super Bowl playoffs were keen to do in the years gone by.

*

Things are tense between them, after that. They were professional enough to maintain the chemistry around the kids, but now that the kids have gone home, there’s nothing left to act as point man for them. Aaron tries breaking the ice multiple times, but Pat seems insistent on making it a non-issue.

“It’s late,” Pat says, kicking up the ball and volleying it in Aaron’s direction.

Aaron catches the ball with the duffel bag. “So we should get back?”

“Wouldn’t want the man of the hour to be missing tonight, would we?” Pat says. He sounds like he means it, too. Aaron doesn’t get it, doesn’t get Patrick Mahomes.

“We could go together this time,” Aaron tries. They’ve yet to do that in any of the loops, surprisingly. “Or time our appearances so it looks like a coincidence.”

Pat doesn’t seem enthused about either option. “I think I’ve had my fair share of keeping up appearances today.”

Pat does this sometimes, Aaron has learned, this passive-aggressive personality that Pat hides behind whenever he’s stressed out or angry about something. Aaron’s been on the receiving end of many of these instances during their days together, but right now, the only word that he can think of to describe Pat’s state of mind is resigned. Pat’s a fighter, always has been. Patrick Mahomes and resignation don’t belong in the same sentence.

Aaron doesn’t know how to fix it. He can doctor up all the magical plays he wants to on the field, but off of the field? That’s foreign territory.

 _Stick to the script_ , his brain tells him.

“I’ll see you at the ceremony then?” Aaron says.

Pat looks off at an invisible point in the distance. “Might skip it tonight. Not really feeling it.”

“Okay,” Aaron says, because that’s what you say in these situations. Keep it simple.

There’s nothing simple about the way he feels, having Pat right beside him and yet further away than the distance makes it seem.

*

Aaron goes back to the hotel. He takes his suit out of the closet, puts it on in the bathroom, and tries not to think about Pat.

It’s a futile effort, because Pat takes up space like he owns every inch of air he makes contact with. Every cabinet in Aaron’s life is overflowing with Pat’s existence, the memory of him.

*

He wins the MVP award. (Again.) ((How many times has it been now?))

Handshakes, fist bumps, high fives. Podium, microphone, trophy. Acknowledge his accomplishments, acknowledge his rivals, and acknowledge his supporters.

“People have asked me, how is it that you keep producing? How is it that you keep upping your game? The obvious answer is hard work. Hard work, and a love for the game, and having wonderful peers to learn from. They keep a guy on his toes, you know? But I wouldn’t have made it this far without my coaches through the years, my friends both on and off the team, all the Packers fans. Your support means a lot to me, and I’ll keep fighting with everything I’ve got.”

He thought he’d be sick and tired of the Three As by now, but after all this time, he still believes in what he’s saying. He wouldn’t be saying it if he didn’t mean it on some level, even if it’s scripted. The problem is, his mouth is talking about the many, when he’s only thinking about the one.

 _I think I’ve had my fair share of keeping up appearances today_.

Maybe the day will reset. Maybe it won’t. Maybe his career will end, right here, right now. Maybe it won’t.

He thinks of the days that were, the days that weren’t. He thinks of Pat’s smile, at the bar, on the hill, in his bed. He thinks of the infinite mornings after, the empty space beside him, the lack of clothes on the floor, the spotless sheets, the clean air. He thinks of waking up and not having Pat stay, only the ache in his heart to remember him by.

Then, he thinks of a narrative where the ending is different, where his desire to kiss Pat ends in fireworks rather than another missed opportunity.

 _Stick to the script_ , his brain tells him, but maybe that script has been changed. Maybe Pat and Aaron can coexist with Mahomes and Rodgers.

And maybe that’s okay.

“Growing old is terrifying,” he continues. “It really is. Much more terrifying than being a rookie, because people stop expecting things of you. They wait for you to fail. I try not to think about it. People say it makes you weak, to let your age turn you into a cynic. Don’t get me wrong, I love football. Always have, always will. But recently, I’ve learned to love the game by approaching it from a different perspective. There have been a lot of bad days throughout my career, but there have been some good ones too, and I think those only come when I’m allowed to love what I love, both on and off the field.”

A weight lifts off his chest, like a pressure valve opening. Yes. This feels right.

“I wouldn’t have come to this realization without the help of one particular person. I hope he’s watching the ceremony tonight, and in case he is, I want to say, thank you. Thank you for recognizing that dreams don’t stop just because they’re no longer dreamt by a child, and that in a way, we’re all rookies until the very last play. Who the hell knows what’s going to happen on the field, right? Football is a beautiful game, and so is life itself.”

He could end it there. The crowd, everyone, he can tell they’re eating up every single word he’s said. He’s given the MVP acceptance speech to end MVP acceptance speeches.

But he’s not finished. There’s more that he wants to say.

He leans into the microphone. “To this unnamed mystery man, you know who you are—I know you think you’ve got this all figured out, but I’m here to throw a wrench into your plans. I would like to fix it together with you, if you will let me. I love you.”

He raises his trophy, and zooms off the stage in search of one person.

It feels better than he was hoping it would, doing what’s unexpected.

*

Aaron is faintly aware that he’s being followed by a parade of people and cameras, but if they think that’ll faze him when he’s just bared his soul on national television, then they’ve got another thing coming.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. There’s only one person who needs to know his truth.

He isn’t actually sure where he’s going. He sees the path, but it’s his body that’s doing the navigating. The compass points him to the corner at the end of the street, a light waiting to flick from red to green.

“Nice suit,” he calls out.

Pat takes a moment to turn around. He’s wearing his regular street clothes from earlier in the day. Plain white tee, black zip-up hoodie, form-fitting jogger pants that cling to his hips. He’s beautiful. Pat is beautiful.

“You’re staring,” Pat says. He looks down at his sunglasses, clenched in his hand. “What’re you doing here?”

The tautness in Pat’s shoulders, the strained expression disguised as aloofness, Aaron sees them now as clearly as he did in his first loop. “Did you catch the ceremony?”

Pat keeps his gaze fixed on the ground. He nods.

Aaron walks towards him, three small steps. “Walk me back?”

“A car would be faster,” Pat says. He’s fidgeting now, leg shaking slightly.

“Would it?”

“By far.” Pat kneads his sunglasses between his palms, rolling them round and round, back and forth. “Actually, I don’t know why you never took a car. Maybe you didn’t rent one? But it’s not like cabs are hard to come by, and it makes more sense than walking around at night. It can be dangerous, you know? What if—”

“Pat.”

“What?”

Aaron brushes the back of his fingers against Pat’s left cheek, a feather-light touch. Pat is here, he’s real, and he just might stay.

“Walk me back?” Aaron says patiently.

“But.” Pat’s eyes are desperate when he finally looks up. “A car really is faster.”

Aaron gets it. It’s hard to talk yourself out of a hole when you’ve been in it for so long.

Pat has been alone in ways that Aaron can’t even begin to imagine. He’s relived the monotony of repetition until his mind has grown numb, has had to come to terms with the possibility that nothing he does will amount to anything. And yet, he’s still finding ways to move forward, despite the fact that he’s been royally screwed over by the universe since the beginning.

But guess what? Fuck the universe.

Aaron takes Pat’s face between his hands, drawing him close. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

Open book, young and free, honest and genuine. There’s the Pat that he knows.

Aaron wants to kiss him. He leans in and does just that.

*

They’re one step past the door when Pat spins Aaron around, propelled by a force that only Pat has. It’s exciting, it’s electrifying, it makes Aaron feel alive.

“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” Pat says, gasping in between kisses. “How many times I’ve jerked off to you in your stupid red training gear and imagined a Chiefs logo over your heart? Do you know how hard it was to not kiss you after our game last year, when I wasn’t even able to play, just watched as you kicked our ass? And every time you gave your speech, and I found you looking like a kicked puppy afterward, do you know—do you know—”

They tumble onto the bed, Aaron sprawled out on the covers, Pat suspended above him. Pat kisses him again, long and deep and all tongue, and says, “I never thought you’d let me do this.”

“This?” Aaron manages to say. They’re wearing too many layers. He pushes Pat’s jacket off his shoulders, yanks Pat’s shirt over his head, and starts working on the buttons of his own shirt.

“Yeah, this—” Pat helps him along, all but tearing the buttons apart at the seams, then grabs possessively at Aaron’s waist. “This, letting me touch you.”

“That’s not—fuck—” Aaron arches off the bed, shutting his eyes when Pat grinds down on his cock. “—you know that’s not true.”

“No. Not like this. Like you won’t regret it.”

Aaron opens his eyes, peering into Pat’s darker ones. Hint of longing, no longer hidden, but laid bare. He might as well be looking into a mirror. They’ve both been monumental idiots this entire time.

He takes Pat’s hand and guides it under the hem of his pants. “Then do you know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you taking me apart, twisting that wrist like you do when you throw one of those perfect throws of yours?”

Pat makes a noise not unlike a whimper. It’s loud, it’s obscene, it’s more beautiful than anything Aaron’s imagination could ever dream up.

“And your mouth,” he continues, “your lips, every time you part them to show your tongue after you nail your target? It’s profane, you know? Do you even remember you’re on TV half the time? How the hell is the league still allowing you to do that? How?”

“Aaron,” Pat says hoarsely. He squeezes the base of Aaron’s cock, moves his fingers upward in a messy stroke. “Aaron.”

“And your body,” Aaron says, barely holding onto coherency as he thrusts into Pat’s hand, “your body is—your waist is so flexible, it’s fucking ridiculous. I’ll be sitting alone in the dark, watching you on TV and touching myself and wondering how you’d look bent over my coffee table—”

“Fucking hell, you can’t just—” Pat presses an open-mouthed kiss underneath Aaron’s jaw. “You can’t just say that, fuck you—”

“—and I’ll be coming all over the couch before I know it because that’s what you—” Aaron shudders when Pat drags his teeth down his throat, punctuating it with a bite on his collarbone. “—because that’s what you do to me. The way you move on the field, it’s no wonder nobody can ever catch you.”

“That is so not true, I—”

“Yes. Yes, it’s true. Don’t argue with me.” Aaron places his other hand against Pat’s chest, feeling every jump of muscle, every beautiful curve of that skin as he travels downward, sinking his fingers into the heat between Pat’s thighs. “You are such an anomaly that everybody’s out of their fucking minds for you. _I’m_ out of my fucking mind for you.”

“ _Aaron_.” Pat’s voice is a wreck, a whisper, drowned out by his ragged breathing. “If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to—before—”

“What is it?” Aaron brushes Pat’s curls out of his eyes. “What do you want?”

Pat turns into Aaron’s touch, kissing Aaron at the center of his palm. “I want you to fuck me.”

 _Yes, of course, anything._ “How do you want it?”

“I don’t care. _I don’t care._ Any way you want to give it to me, just—” Pat leans his forehead against Aaron’s. “Don’t make me ask again. You already have me.”

Aaron’s heart is so full. “You keep finding ways to surprise me, you know that?” he says, then kisses him.

***

There’s something ringing in his ear. Aaron rolls over to tug the phone cord out, and bumps directly into a solid lump.

What?

He opens his eyes. Breathes in, breathes out. He closes his eyes. Reopens them. Sits up. Clothes on the floor, wrinkled sheets, smell of sex. And…

“Pat?”

Pat groans and slowly stirs awake. Aaron gives him the time, not so much for Pat’s benefit but for his own. He gently lowers his fingertips onto the side of Pat’s face that isn’t buried in the pillows, a feather-light touch, scared that if he applies any additional pressure, that this will all disappear.

But Pat stays.

“Pat,” he says again, breathless. He’s holding onto Pat with both hands now. “Wake up.” _Wake up, Aaron, wake up._

“‘s too early,” Pat complains, words mushed together in a lazy slur.

“Pat,” Aaron says, his voice dangerously low. “Will you please open your eyes?”

Pat blinks groggily up at him. Aaron sees the moment he figures it out.

“Aaron?” Pat springs into an upright position, nearly headbutting Aaron’s jaw in the process. “What is—what are you—what?”

Aaron shrugs in disbelief. He’s got nothing.

Pat glances around in a daze. “This isn’t my room.”

Aaron shakes his head.

“This is your room.”

Aaron nods.

Pat presses both of his hands (warm, so warm) to Aaron’s chest. “This is really happening.”

Aaron wants to kiss him. It’s a familiar longing, one that he’s used to by now, but it thrills him nonetheless. If this is the single constant that the universe will allow him to carry forward to the future, then he’ll happily accept it. The only difference between now and before is that at this very moment, he can do whatever the hell he wants.

He tilts Pat’s face up, pressing his lips to the corner of Pat’s mouth. He leans back, taking in the solid build of Pat’s existence before him, and decides that as much as he enjoys all of Pat’s expressions, this one of stunned happiness is his favorite.

“You’re quiet,” Aaron says. “Nothing else you want to say?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Pat admits. “I feel like I’ll wake up if I try to do anything.”

Aaron laughs. It’s okay. He can be the clear mind for the both of them. For now.

The obnoxious ringing from before returns, causing Pat to jump in his arms. His phone is buzzing against his leg. Aaron digs it out from underneath the covers and turns on the screen.

Matt.

“The morning interviews,” Aaron remembers. He’s been reliving February 6 for so long that he’s completely forgotten about February 7.

“Interviews,” Pat parrots. His eyes widen. “Shit. _Interviews._ Yesterday. Your speech. Do you think—”

Aaron does. He lets Matt go to voicemail with a mental note to apologize to him later as he navigates to the NFL website. The first thing he sees is a big fat HQ picture of him and Pat on the front page. Headline: _Super Bowl to be a duel between partners?_

“Guess this one’s sticking,” Aaron says. He peers at Pat when he doesn’t get a reply.

Pat is visibly shaking. Maybe Aaron should be too, but he feels surprisingly calm. Zen.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asks.

“Did you just ask if I’m—” Pat’s breathing begins to escalate. “No, I’m not. Why aren’t you freaking out? You’re the one who’s always freaking out.”

“And you’re the one who’s always keeping it together.” Aaron softens. “It’s not like what they’re saying is false, right?”

It takes Pat a few moments. Aaron waits for him to work it out. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Aaron tosses the phone onto the ground and takes Pat’s hands in his own.

“Because if you’re fucking with me, I swear to god—”

Aaron wraps Pat in a full-body hug, letting Pat cling to him. He feels the trembling ebb and flow in Pat’s shoulders, the way Pat’s heartbeat thumps at a faster tempo than his own, the warmth of Pat’s skin.

After Pat calms down, Aaron grips his shoulders and leans him back. “Look at me.”

Pat looks reluctantly. His eyes are red-rimmed, small sniffles occasionally slipping out.

“Does it look like I’m fucking with you?” Aaron says.

Pat stares at him, unblinking. Aaron waits. They’ve waited for so long already, after all. They can wait just a few minutes more.

Eventually, Pat sniffs one last time and punches him in the upper arm. “If you change your mind later, I will kick your ass. I will kick your ass so hard you’ll wish you never tried anything.”

“Yes, Pat,” Aaron says dutifully.

“Asshole.” Pat punches him again. “When’s your first interview?”

“Later.” 10 AM, Aaron thinks. That’s probably why Matt was calling him, among other things, but he’ll leave that for future-Aaron to deal with. “Not for at least another few hours.”

“Well then,” Pat says, playfulness returning. He climbs into Aaron’s lap and rests his arms over Aaron’s shoulders, anchoring his hands in fistfuls of Aaron’s hair. “I think we can find something to do for a few hours.”

“There’s the Patrick Mahomes I know and love,” Aaron says, heart spinning in cartwheels from telling the truth.

Pat tackles him into the pillows.

*

Afterward, they lie in the same position as they did that night, Pat looking up at the ceiling, Aaron looking at him. Pat is as beautiful during the day as he is during the night.

“You know what I just realized?” Pat says, sounding contemplative. “That kid and his friends from yesterday. They’re going to remember us.”

Aaron runs a finger up Pat’s chest, resting it against Pat’s collarbone. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.”

That’s an incomplete thought. Aaron sits up. “Are you still worried?”

“Fuck no.”

“You sure?”

“Dude, yes I’m sure. Chill.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Just.” Pat shrugs one shoulder. “That kid scored the childhood anecdote of a lifetime.”

Aaron scoffs and lies back down. “Go back to sleep.”

“Can you imagine being him?” Pat continues, ignoring him. “Like, going back to school and telling your classmates about it. It’d be like if we played ball with Brett and Peyton and then found out they were fucking. Well, he might not get the fucking part until he’s older, but you get the idea. Crazy shit.”

Aaron groans. “You did not just say that.”

“What? That he won’t get that we’re fucking?”

“No, that you compared us to—ugh, I can’t even say it.”

“They were the first names I thought of! My brain is still mush from… you know!”

“There are so many other names you could’ve said. _So many others._ ”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t need that imagery.” Aaron smacks him with a pillow. “Seriously, go back to sleep before I resort to drastic measures.”

“We have press duties soon,” Pat says. “In, like, literally an hour.”

“And we’re technically mortal enemies for the day, and yet here we are. _Go to sleep_.”

“You’re not being very responsible, Mr. Rodgers.”

“That’s it. Get out.”

Pat scoots closer, curling his limbs around Aaron’s waist and burying his face in Aaron’s neck. “If you wanted me to leave, you shouldn't have declared your love to the world.”

“Screw you,” Aaron says.

Because Pat is right. Turns out, the faux pas of wanting more than you already have? Not such an ironclad rule after all. Aaron found a different path, and he’s staying on it.

As for the Super Bowl? Win or lose, life will go on. They’ll be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> (The outfit I gave Pat does in fact exist, and these are the individual pieces:
> 
> \- [Leopard oversize shirt](https://www.kenzo.com/us/en/kenzo-x-kansaiyamamoto-%E2%80%98leopard--oversize-t-shirt/FB55TS0704SJ.01.L.html?cgid=tshirt-h) by Kenzo x Kansaiyamamoto  
> \- [Waxed cotton jacket](https://www.barbour.com/us/barbour-barnby-waxed-cotton-jacket) by Barbour  
> \- [Distressed skinny jeans](https://www.ysl.com/en-us/denim/distressed-skinny-jeans-in-dirty-sandy-blue-578962YA5074781.html) by Yves Saint Laurent
> 
> As for the suit, I totally made that up, but I’m sure there’s a designer brand out there that has made a very good-looking white suit.)
> 
> I began writing this in early January after the matchups for the wild card rounds were finalized. Since then, it’s been an interesting journey updating the narrative to incorporate RL events (e.g. Pat’s injury vs the Browns) with the AU aspects. It’s probably obvious that I was hoping for a different outcome to the NFC Championship, and I was honestly so out of it after the fact that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to finish this, even though it was about 95% done going into the weekend. After taking the night to gather my thoughts, I decided to finish and post the fic so I could go into the new week with a clear mind. I ended up growing very fond of this little AU world over the course of writing, and I hope you were able to find something you enjoyed in it as well.
> 
> Ultimately, this fic is a self-indulgent love letter to everyone who made the 2020/21 NFL season possible during these difficult times. Having weekly games to look forward to, knowing that certain players would be on my TV so I could spend a little time with them at the end of a tiring week - it made the past few months manageable. Pat and Aaron have especially brought me happiness this season (despite neither of them playing for my team :)), and I hope that regardless of where their individual futures take them, that we will get to see them play one game against each other before they go their separate ways.


End file.
